


read it backwards

by thekookster



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Harry Hart Lives, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Memory Loss, Nightmares, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2018-05-05 04:14:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5361044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thekookster/pseuds/thekookster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He's rediscovering fragments and facets of himself, trying to make sense of a life between the cracks of the empty spaces in his mind.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Harry comes back from the dead. Eggsy doesn't remember him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	read it backwards

**Author's Note:**

> Finally getting this posted! Originally, this was based on a [doodle](http://thecookieoftroy.tumblr.com/post/127860402044/started-this-like-2-months-ago-and-forgot-about) over on tumblr and it... kind of got out of hand. I'd like to thank deepdarkwaters for the wonderful optimism she had about my ability to finish this story, without which I'm not sure it would have been posted at all.  
> Enjoy!

The first time he wakes, he burns. Everything is light and bright and piercing through him, and he's struggling against it without moving, screaming silently, he's on _fire_ , needs to fight it, needs to  _survive—_

There are no voices, nothing else. He cannot hear, cannot see. Blind, deaf and dumb; he is just burning up in a column of blinding white light, and no one hears him scream.

* * *

The next time he comes to, he can hear. He can make out two different voices: one lighter – female, he thinks – the other deep, stern. The traits collect themselves like bullet points in his head, and immediately another one adds itself to the list: male, Scottish.

"...been a month, he hasn't shown any signs of waking up. Some neurologists are coming by this afternoon to assess the situation. I sent his mother the emergency letter already. There's not much else I can do, lass."

"Eggsy's been showing elevated brain activity. As per regulations, that's cause enough to tell him. He deserves to know—"

"I've been having a hard enough time keeping Excalilbur out as it is, and he needs to focus on his own recovery. There's no guarantee that Eggsy's ever going to wake up, you know that."

The voices do sound familiar, and although he doesn't grasp all of what the two of them are so urgently discussing, he gets a niggling feeling that it's important. He has a sudden urge to see, but doesn't want to be discovered. He needs to be cautious, gather information.

His eyes. He needs to open his eyes. The knowledge comes suddenly, as does an awareness of his body, and, very carefully, he cracks open his crusted, unused eyes.

The light is dim this time, not burning. He sees it across the plain white of the ceiling. He looks at it for only a second before he glances down, to where the two figures are standing at the foot of the bed. The shorter one, the young woman, has a superior and controlled stance to her, deadly professional. She's wearing a sleek suit and moves like she was born for it, every inch holding her ground against the man who is towering over her. 

The man is slender but stern, his face all edges and angles, rounded off by the smooth curve of his bald head. He's wearing a sweater with a shirt and tie peeking out from the collar instead of the full suit. Despite the more casual clothes, he has an air of authority to him, the curve of his shoulders and spine seamless but closed off. He seems tired, weary. 

Suddenly, even though he can’t have been glancing at them for more than a second or two, both of them tense up, sense that they’re being watched, and look over. The reaction to seeing him awake and aware is instantaneous; the woman smiles immediately, and the man let’s out a surprised breath. 

“Eggsy!” 

He doesn’t reply, waits instead for further reactions. Do they want to harm or help him?

“Gave us a good scare there, lad. You’ve been out for a month, got us thinking you might not make it out of the coma. We had you on life support for a bit, but it didn’t last long. Your bones are healing fine, although your muscle mass has obviously decreased. You had a head trauma too, but that seems fine so far.” The man then pauses, peers at him. “Eggsy?”

They both seem to react uneasily to his silence, like it’s terribly strange for him to be so still. They can sense that something is off. He doesn’t have the benefit of the doubt anymore, and although he doesn’t trust the situation, so far these two seem to have friendly intentions toward him. He opens his mouth, but his throat feels dry, unused, and his lips cracked, like he hasn’t used them in a long time. He starts coughing, the sound hacked off and the rough force of it shaking through him. The blonde quickly darts out of the room to come back with a glass of water, and he takes slow, careful sips when it’s guided to his mouth. When he finally speaks, it still sounds rough.

“Where am I?”

They shut down. The hope in their eyes dims, and they lean away from him slowly, carefully. 

“Eggsy,” the woman says quietly, “What’s my name?”

There’s a prick of irritation in him at that, because why would they expect him to know that? He’s just woken up, and they sure as hell haven’t introduced themselves yet.

“How the bloody hell should I know?”

The blonde doesn’t look at the man, keeps her eyes trained on Eggsy instead. When she speaks, her tone is decisive.

“You’re right, of course. We’re not telling Excalibur.”

* * *

They ask him about everything. Things about his life, his family, his past, and very vaguely about his job. It must take hours, but he’s no good. He can’t remember any of it, and when he mentions burning, they go quiet. They won’t tell him how he got those injuries that the man mentioned, and before they leave, they tell him his own name, which sounds odd when he tries saying it, and introduce themselves as Lancelot and Merlin.

“Like King Arthur?” he asks reflexively, and startles at his own answer while they stare at him.

“How do you know the legend of King Arthur, Eggsy?”

"Dunno ’bout a legend, but those names are connected, innit?"

They exchange a quick glance, then the man— Merlin— asks, "do you know what that connection is?"

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t mention that there’s another name on the tip of his tongue, something that feels untouchable, pure.

Like light, searing through him and leaving him unbearably hollow, nothing but ashes in its wake.  


* * *

When he dreams, it’s in colours and pain. The pain is always different: sometimes it’s the sting of slaps and hits all over his body, dulled with the certainty of repetition. Sometimes it’s more focused, pinpoints of force that bury bruises in him, always making him think that surely there should be bullets or shrapnel ripping through him. Other times, he actually feels sharp blades carving him out. 

As far as he knows, he never makes any sounds or movements in his sleep; whenever he wakes, he finds himself lying carefully still on his back in the middle of his hospital bed. He always remembers the pain though, catalogues the different shades and nuances of it like a history of hurt could ever reveal anything good about him.

* * *

When he wakes, he can find no immediate cause for it. He can’t hear anyone in the room, and when he opens his eyes, there’s no one there either. It’s quite dark, and there’s a tray with food on his bedside table. He starts eating, and he’s almost done with the meal when he finds the note.

It’s thick, fancy paper, and although the handwriting itself is a little jagged at the edges, the words on it are written carefully, in elegant black ink.

_Dear Eggsy,_

_I finally found out this morning about your unfortunate state. Merlin would not let me see you, unfortunately, but rest assured that I will visit you soon. In the meantime, I wanted to return something of yours. I do hope you will enjoy the meal._

_Yours,_

_HH_

Under the note, there’s a golden chain with a rather large circular pendant on it. The way that it’s lying on the tray, Eggsy could swear that the symbol made of gold in the middle is a K, but when he holds the necklace up, it falls so that it looks like an underlined V. V for what? Victory? Valour? 

Valentine?

He flinches when that word crosses his mind. An explosive burst of  _hatefear_ ** _rage_  **crashes through him, and he doesn't even know _why_. It’s gone as abruptly as it came, and he remains frustrated with himself. What does the word mean? Is it a person? A weapon? Why can’t he remember?

He lies back and keeps twirling the pendant in his hands, hoping for another flash of memory that doesn’t come. When the exhausting, tangled mess in his head eventually makes his eyes droop and his body sag into the bed, the pendant remains clutched in his hand.

* * *

Merlin returns that morning with a horde of doctors. Psychiatrists, neurologists, physiotherapists: they all poke and prod at Eggsy's brain and body until he feels like a pile of mush. Just as he's about to tell them all to bugger off, Merlin steps in and politely herds them out. 

"They're going to assess how extensive your amnesia is and how long it'll take to recover from it," he explains once they're alone. "In the meantime, we'll see how much you remember on your own, and I'll put together a file on your life so you can read up on your background a little."

Sounds reasonable. Eggsy is nodding his assent when the concept of _the meantime_ hits him. He thinks of the yawning, empty stretches of time in between when Marlin and Lancelot visit, how he just floats in between events. "Can I get a clock in here?" He asks.

Merlin looks up at him from his clipboard. "I'll see what I can do about that," he says neutrally.

"Cheers."

There's something going on behind that carefully blank face, something that Eggsy can't figure out. He's figured that Merlin and Lancelot aren't doctors or hospital staff, that they play another role here. He's just missing too many pieces of the puzzle to know quite what that is, yet.

* * *

It’s dark. There’s a man in his room.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Eggsy says.

The man’s eyebrows rise up a tick. He's dressed in expensive clothes, but his face is tired, worn. 

“No?” he asks. He doesn’t move from where he’s leaning against the wall, and his posture is precise, calculated.

“No. Merlin doesn’t want me to see anyone.”

The man doesn’t move an inch, but something about him seems… disappointed, maybe. Like he’d wanted a different answer.

“Well,” he continues regardlessly, “then he should have installed more security around this place. He made it far too easy for me to break in.”

The statement is unsettling, but not enough so to deter Eggsy. “Who’re you?” he asks boldly.

Something twinkles behind the man’s glasses, somewhere between expectancy and danger.

“I’m the man who left you that note.”

"That ain't an answer."

The man's eyes crinkle, pleased. "I see that the amnesia hasn't affected you too significantly," he affirms.

A reference to something he's lost. Irritation wells up, burns a bit coming up and spitting out of him: "not going to tell me your name, then? Bit impolite for a posh bloke like you, innit?"

"I would prefer to not talk about classified information."

"Can't be that classified, otherwise you wouldn't have given me your initials. Gotta call you something, even Lancelot and Merlin left me their names."  


The man is perfectly still for a moment, so pale that he almost looks like a ghost in the dark.

"Excalibur," he says eventually. "When we first met, it was a different name, but currently I hold the place of Excalibur."

"So are they codenames, then? I thought that naming theme was weird."

"Sorry, Eggsy, I can't answer that."

Eggsy considers that, but his mind drifts back to the pendant and that odd shape in the centre of it. He almost asks straight away about whoever or whatever Valentine is, but bites his tongue at the last second; decides to try something subtler.

"Alright, the necklace, then. You said you was returning something of mine. What's it for?"

"It simply didn't belong to me, so I felt obliged to return it."

"Yeah," Eggsy acknowledges, "but it means something too, doesn't it? It's special."

Excalibur goes quiet for a moment, then gestures to the chair next to Eggsy's bed. "May I?" he asks. When Eggsy nods, he smoothly moves to take a seat. He's silent for a beat then, very carefully, says, "it's an apology of sorts. Simultaneously, it represents a promise."

"You fucked up," Eggsy realises. "You owe me something, don't you? Or you did. You needed to make up for something you bollocksed up somehow."

Excalibur stays tellingly silent. Eggsy doesn't really know what to do with that; tries to imagine what this man might've been to him in another life, fails. He studies Excalibur’s dark brown eyes. _Deep enough to drown in_ , he thinks.

"This guilt, then? 'Cos I gotta tell ya, whatever you've done, I don't remember, and guilt really ain't what I need right now."

"No," Excalibur replies. He pauses and searches Eggsy's face for something that probably isn't there any more. "I suppose it's hope."

* * *

Over the next days – weeks? months? – every day, the doctors, physiotherapists and nurses come back to ask him questions and encourage him to rebuild his body and mind. He answers and trains and works because there’s nothing else to do. Merlin and Lancelot come back too, and he decides that he likes them. Something in him recognises and trusts both of them, even though they can’t tell him much about how he got here or what he does. They question him too, from time to time, but sometimes they also just come in and engage him in small talk. He comes to like Lancelot’s quiet intelligence and Merlin’s blunt, grumpy brand of sarcasm. It’s nice, and he appreciates the break from the boring, endless days of lying in bed. 

Every night, Excalibur comes back, sometimes for conversation, sometimes for quiet company. Eggsy prefers the nights over the days, when things are quiet and dark; feels like he can hide from the rest of the world when there’s nothing but the draping shadows around him. The daylight is too bright, it reminds him of his first bout of awareness too much, of burning.

* * *

Although most of his dreams are in degrees of pain, there are also some that consist of colour. There’s one in particular that keeps recurring, one that Eggsy just can’t make sense of.

It starts the same way it ends: red. He can’t make out faces or even a room, but after the initial pure red, there’s always flashes and blurs of light, like he’s in motion. The longer it goes on, the more dull bits of pain accumulate, until he finally walks into the light. 

It always feels like it’s streaming through him, shattering the heavy load of pain he’s carrying for a serene moment, until –

_Pain_  through his skull, through his core, he’s falling, burning,  _red_  –

– that’s always when he jerks awake.

* * *

Merlin brings him a file and a tablet. "More effective than a simple clock," he explains. "This way you don't need to sit on every question you have, and I've built in a panic button in the control centre for emergency situations." Eggsy doesn't remember how to use a tablet, but when he unlocks this one, the layout seems intuitive enough to pick up on fairly quickly.

In the file, Eggsy reads about a man named Gary Unwin, about his peaceful early childhood and his rocky teenage years. Prideful accomplishments and regrettable mistakes, moments of happiness degenerating into a wreck of desolation. The last entry in the file is a form from early 2014, documenting an overnight stay at Holborn police station for carjacking and a surprising release the following morning.

Like an afterthought, there is a small list in a corner of his file, a tiny cluster of family members.

_Sister: D. Unwin, b. 2012_

_Mother: M. Unwin, b. 1972_

_Father: L. Unwin, 1974-1997_

_Stepfather: D. Baker, b. 1968, married to M. Unwin 2011_

He stares at the initials, tries to remember the names behind them or muster a measure of love or happiness for people he doesn't know any more. He thinks he might dimly remember a blonde woman smiling, crying, but beyond flashes of protectiveness and another dim memory of mucking about with two boys, nothing comes to him. He tries imagining his little sister, but as always, it's a frustratingly futile exercise to try and remember any recent details about his life.

He asks Merlin if they're all right, this family that he doesn't remember. What they think about his disappearance.

"Aye," the bald man replies, "they're well off in a house in one of the better London neighbourhoods. They've been placated with a couple of fabricated letters that you've been off on an internship for the past month and a half. I've taken the liberty of drafting up a letter stating that you fell down some stairs and had a mild bout of amnesia. For once you're released, of course. I should think that they won't wonder at your missing memories that way."

Eggsy nods, thanks him. He thinks about asking if they have any footage of his home life, but shakes off the thought immediately. There's no reason for a medical institution to have access to that sort of thing, and it's not like Merlin is some sort of Q-type spy engineer, even if he does seem like a computer genius. 

His life ain't a spy movie, after all.

* * *

"My dreams are proper weird sometimes," he tells Lancelot once, "I'm always in pain."

She sits acutely still at the words, eyes picking him apart as if he's a target in the window of a sniper rifle's scope. 

"Was I… beaten? I mean, I remember a pretty calm childhood, right, but they're saying that I'm missing a good four years, and I don't remember the rest of it in glorious detail, y'get me?"

Lancelot studies him carefully, a worried crease making itself known on her forehead. "I don't know too much about it," she says, "but your stepfather was involved in a lot of smaller criminal activities. He drank. You never really talked about it."

"My mum and sister, Merlin said I got them a house. He's not living with them, is he?"

“No, he doesn’t know where it is. We’ve been monitoring them, just in case, but nothing’s happened. I promised you that I would keep them safe.“

She looks vaguely surprised when that last sentence slips out, like she didn’t quite mean to say it, but it reassures Eggsy. He nods.

"And he married me mum 'bout three years ago? That's what it said in the file."

"Yes. As far as I know, they saw each other for some years before that as well."

Eggsy considers that, stares at the ceiling. He doesn't actively remember any of it, although his subconscious obviously does, if his painful dreams are anything to go by. It seems like he's missing bits and pieces from at least six years back, and he's no doctor, but that seems like an awful lot of time.

"Eggsy," Lancelot calls out softly. "You need to give it time. Recovery rates for retrograde amnesia are quite good when the patients are confronted with past memories or environments. Merlin is working on clearing some old footage for you, it's just taking a while."

That catches his attention. "Footage?"

Lancelot looks caught out, suddenly, like she's accidentally given too much away, but recovers quickly. "From the shop," she explains smoothly, "the tailor's we work at. He's also trying to recover some personal affects, but that's a little more difficult. Hopefully, seeing a bit of your work life is going to jog some sort of memory."

She's looking him in the eyes unflinchingly, but Eggsy isn't fooled.

"There's somethin' you're not telling me," he says. "Lance, what's going on? 'Cos you weren't talkin' about shop footage just now, that's for sure."

Again, he has that absurd feeling like he's in a spy movie, for a second, but Lancelot sighs like she's telling him something he's not supposed to know and explains.

"It's the Marines. Merlin's trying to get some footage from them, since it's older than the shop footage. With your kind of amnesia, patients usually recall older events better than more recent ones. So we're trying to round up older photos and videos and work our way to newer memories."

That sounds… plausible. "Right," he says. "Makes sense."

More sense than what he was thinking, anyway.

* * *

Dark grey. Dim lighting. Pain punching through his jaw, gnawing at his wrists.

Counting out the rhythm.

One, two, pain. One, two, pain. One, two—

Pause. The ache dulls out, relocates.

His chest, compressed. Breathing in water like gasoline, burning all the way through. His head yanked back once it all goes dark, allowing a couple of burning breaths, then the whole thing done over. 

Struggle, drown, breathe. Struggle, drown, breathe. Struggle, drown, br—

_"…ould be. I'll sort th…"_

_No_. Nonono, please no—

Not water he's breathing in, but shame. Crushing, confusing _shame_ —

He stops counting.

* * *

The room is grey. The light is shifting toward pink, and Eggsy would say that it’s currently sunset if it wasn’t for the brunet man sitting in a chair by the bed, asleep. 

It's routine by now for Excalibur to pop into Eggsy's room at night and either stay until dawn or until Eggsy falls asleep. He still avoids the topic of his real name, and hasn't said much more about his and Eggsy's shared past, but surprisingly enough, he still always manages to pull various conversational topics out of his proverbial hat whenever they're both feeling chatty. Eggsy finds him curious: although everything about him screams of a posh upbringing, the man has very controversial opinions, and he doesn’t shy away from expressing them, either. A contradiction enveloped in a mystery, and Eggsy can’t help but think that the current, contrast-heavy lighting suits him rather well: heavy shadows falling over half his face, the other half being steadily consumed by light. Two opposite traits intertwined over the plains of his visage. 

So far, Eggsy’s only ever seen him in the warm, intimate dimness of the night. Eggsy has felt strangely protective of that, as if someone who brings him such a strange measure of comfort shouldn’t ever have to face that blinding light of day that swallows Eggsy whole in his dreams, but the light suits Excalibur surprisingly well. On his face, the light doesn't look harsh or burning; just soft and gentle.

He’s not wearing his glasses this time, and Eggsy can clearly see the starburst-shaped scar on his temple and follow the tendrils winding down his cheek and across his forehead. His gaze slides down his skin to dip into the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes, nose, mouth. Then it drags down the man’s plump bottom lip and the dimple in his chin, slipping across his jawline and up the outer curve of his ear to see a single curl out of place right at his temple. He raises a hand automatically to tuck it away, and freezes when he realises what he’s doing. The hand drops again. It seems like such a natural instinct to reach out to this man, like Eggsy’s body knows what it wants already, but he hasn’t known this dark-eyed man for very long, and he certainly doesn’t know his name. How could he feel so natural with someone whose name refuses to come to him? He searches the sleeping face for answers he doesn’t have, gaze gliding across the plains of that wonderful face again. If only he could find his identity written somewhere here, across the curve of his cheek or the slope of his nose.

Nothing.

Frustrated, Eggsy drops his eyes to the suit, sweeping in broad strokes along the dark grey material. They run down the arm that the man has propped himself up on, and land on the hand that’s hanging from the bed frame towards Eggsy. 

The hand. He _recognises_ that hand. Its palm is broad, slightly callused, with thick fingers and slight wrinkles at the knuckles. Flat, filed nails; to give the impression of a clean, non-threatening hand. But Eggsy _knows_ , he remembers the feeling of it weighing heavy on his shoulder _– “Much appreciated,” –_ remembers seeing it sling around the brolly; watching it fire guns and stab and throw and impale,  _a blurry church drowning in red –_

Suddenly, violently, he’s wrenched into a vision of that hand curled around the stem of a martini glass in dim, gold lighting. The feeling of those rough pads against his face, the curve of that mouth murmuring  _Eggsy…_  

And he remembers what he’d said in return.

“Ha… rry?”

He waits for a beat after he’s said it, expecting something. He’s not sure what, but something must surely follow. It feels like the natural conclusion, like Harry must wake up now, or Lancelot and Merlin come in to praise him, or he suddenly remembers the rest of his life, or maybe… 

Maybe not.

Maybe it just stays silent.

It really bothers him, for once. The silence is usually a comfort, something complete to fill out his incomplete life, but he needs sound now, a reaction, something so it’ll seem real, so that it’s undeniable that he’s finally remembered something–

“Harry,” he whispers again, slowly at first, needing to sound it out, but once it’s out, he can’t stop repeating it vehemently, like a blessing, a benediction, a _curse_ : “Harry. Harry! Harry,  _Harry!_ ” He’s shaking, knuckles white from gripping the sheets so tight, but he can’t quit now, keeps going like a cut that won’t stop bleeding.

Of course, the man in question starts stirring. He doesn’t seem to realise what’s happening at first when his eyes crack open – opens his mouth for some polite pleasantry or another – but Eggsy can’t take it; he falls headfirst into those deep brown eyes and says his name again.

Harry’s eyes widen. He leans forward against the bed frame and reaches out a hand to Eggsy, who lurches toward him in response. He needs to touch, needs to feel that skin, that weight and warmth.

“Harry, I’d fuckin’ forgotten, and I'm so close, but you're still not back and _I want to fuckin' remember!_ It's you, 'course it bloody is, Harry, Harry,  _Harry_  –!”

Eggsy’s bent forward over the bed frame, gripping the back of Harry's smooth suit, refusing to let go. His fingertips curl against Harry’s shoulder blades, restless with frustration.

And oh, Harry, perfect Harry, folds his arms around Eggsy and soothes.

“My dear boy,” he murmurs against Eggsy’s ear, “it’s quite alright, you're doing marvellously.”

He’s hyperventilating by now, overwhelmed and strung out on frustration. That memory of Harry's calloused hands cupping his face is drowning him in such an intense wave of pure feeling— surely it’s enough by now to drown that sodden remainder of doubt, he thinks, to extinguish that awful burn of _something missing_ , but there’s something that won’t quite die, a miserable little ember in the dark corner of his head that keeps insisting that something’s not quite right here, not quite… 

It clicks, all of a sudden. He doesn’t have a specific memory of the incident, but the truth burns in his bones: not something, some _one_. Eggsy slumps, all at once and sobs, defeated by that horrible truth, anger at himself swirling away to be replaced with a horrible sense of loss. He can’t let go of Harry, can’t bear to let him out of his sight lest he disappear— and Harry notices, of course he does. He makes a low, inquisitive sound, and Eggsy mutters his revelation through the sudden lump in his throat. 

“You’re not s'posed to be here.”

“Merlin has long since accepted my presence here, you needn’t worry.”

“No, Harry, you’re _not supposed to be here._ Harry, you’re dead.”

The hand that’s been stroking soothingly through Eggsy’s hair stills, then cups the back of his head firmly, clutching him against Harry’s shoulder as if Harry’s the one afraid of breaking unless he has something stable to cling to, to hold him together.

“I’m quite alive," he murmurs, "I survived and got that bloody scar out of it. It’s been four months since I got shot, now.” Without pulling away from Eggsy, he slides the hand not cupping Eggsy’s head down his arm. He grips Eggsy’s wrist carefully, hesitantly, and moves his hand up to Harry’s cheek, where the gnarled tip of the longest tendril of scar tissue curls around Harry’s cheekbone.

Eggsy stops breathing.

“Alive,“ Harry keeps murmuring, “Eggsy, both of us are alive.“

His breath stabs out of him in a jagged sob. He starts trembling, can’t stop running his finger over the knotted scar tissue at Harry’s temple until he believes it, feeling out the topography of a life almost lost. 

“Harry,“ he whispers again, and it feels like finally finding a shard of himself.

* * *

He gets better. Physically, his therapy starts transitioning from basic exercises for rebuilding his muscle mass into a revival of his gymnastics skills and training. There's a small gym in the basement of the facility he's in, presumably for physical therapy reasons. He's tried some other doors in the building on his way to the gym, but they don't open for him. He's basically just allowed from his room to the gym and back. 

Mentally, he starts remembering little things, like that Merlin always moans about equipment, that he misses the feeling of a gun in his hand. It makes it increasingly clear what exactly he does for a living. He gets a good laugh out of it when Lancelot and Merlin confirm his suspicions by having a conversation about a mission at his bedside when they think he’s asleep. Smooth super-spies his _arse_.

Now, if he brings something about his professional life up, he will get answers, but he apparently he isn’t allowed to be told things he doesn’t remember. Once, when Eggsy expresses his frustration about this limiting rule, Merlin clarifies that apparently there is some sort of precedence for amnesia cases in their company, and that there had been several cases where a forcibly speedy recovery didn’t end well for any of the parties involved, especially the injured agent.

Of course, he can’t be expected to remember all of his training, and once he is physically healed and mentally certifiably stable, he is expected to attend a reintegration program. When he hears those news, it triggers a strange feeling of relief within Eggsy. It’s odd, having strong feelings about things when he can’t remember why he has them, but he trusts his instincts. 

Despite the odd details, he still can’t remember specific memories. He's rediscovering fragments and facets of himself, trying to make sense of a life between the cracks of the empty spaces in his mind. It feels like he’s missing a disturbingly huge part of his life, and the doctors insist that it’s best that he doesn’t get discharged until he remembers a bit more about his private life. It’s one of the things he works hardest at, tries triggering some memories of his family, but he just can’t recreate that sudden realisation that he had that one time with Harry.

Harry himself is a rock. Now that Eggsy remembers more about who he is, Harry slowly transitions from general small talk to tales of his life. He won’t reveal too much about specific missions, but he will drop tidbits about his accomplishments, now that Eggsy has started asking about what the ’spy life’ is like. Harry starts visiting Eggsy earlier in the day, too. Slowly, he starts transforming from a vision of the night into a solid presence during the day.

Eggsy still prefers the intimacy of darkness, but with Harry leading him into it, he’s slowly relaxing into the daylight, too.

* * *

The first time he dreams an actual image, he’s absolutely painless. He’s sitting in a field of white flowers. It’s a simple picture, straight out of a toddler’s enthusiastic crayon drawing. It’s beautiful in its simplicity, and the entire dream is an oasis of peace. He finds himself leasurely strolling through his thoughts, searching for the name of the flower that’s surrounding him. It doesn’t come to him in the dream, but when he slowly blinks awake, he doesn’t have to search any more. It leaves his mouth like a breath, like he’s saying his own name.

“Daisy.“

* * *

The next person he sees is Lancelot. When he calmly asks about Daisy during breakfast, her shoulders visibly drop in relief, and she smiles fondly at Eggsy. She checks in with Merlin quickly, and within the next half hour, Eggsy has his full, more detailed family history at the tips of his fingers, including the vague circumstances of his father's death. As soon as he sees the pictures, the memories hit him like the slaps he took for his family, and a fierce protectiveness overtakes him. Lancelot must see something in his face, because her voice is soft when she consoles him.

“They’re safe from him, remember? Dean’s locked away by now, and he wouldn’t even know where to look for them, even if he wasn’t.“

“I fuckin’ know, alright, Rox? It’s just– “

He cuts off abruptly, realising what just slipped out of his mouth. Lancelot – no, Roxy, his friend and ally – lights up, and the corner of her mouth tilts up, amused.

“Well, took you long enough,“ she teases.

All of a sudden, he knows exactly how to respond.

“Can’t all be top of the class, hey?“

The reaction is instantaneous: Roxy grins in delight and leans over to give him a tight hug.

“Has it come back to you?“ she asks once she’s pulled back, “or is it just that phenomenon where you remember feelings and odd details, but not specific memories?“ 

“That’s the gist of it, yeah. We’re mates though, aren’t we? I remember it somewhere in here.“ 

“Yeah, we are. We supported each other throughout the... job interview.“ She rolls her eyes at the term. Eggsy knows he probably isn't allowed to be told all the details of that particular story, but can't bring himself to care: another breakthrough means he's one step closer to recovery.

“So,“ he says, smiling up at her, feeling triumphant, victorious,  _alive_. “What can you tell me about how we met, then?“

* * *

Again.

Light, burning, _screaming –_

He gasps awake.

* * *

“There’s still something missing,“ Eggsy says  on a serene afternoon while Harry is reading peacefully across from him. “Like a part of me. It just ain’t right.“

Harry studies him silently for a moment, then closes his book and places it on Eggsy’s bedside table.

“In cases like yours, it’s not unusual for some memories to remain elusive,“ he reasons, “I suppose that feeling must be something you’ll learn to deal with. Adapt to it, as it were.“

“Nah, it’s like when I didn’t remember your name, right? Everything about you was locked away, and now... it’s all there, Harry, I just have to reach for it.“ He struggles to put a name to that odd feeling of something missing. ’Feeling incomplete’ sounds like too cheesy and heartfelt a term, somehow, and Eggsy sighs. “It's like— my life's been written down and crossed out, and now I'm left trying to figure out what I wrote beneath the scribbles."

“Do you feel as though someone’s identity is eluding you again?“

_My own_ , Eggsy thinks. He doesn’t say it out loud, frowns instead when something occurs to him.

The pendant. He hasn’t thought about it in a while, so caught up in physical therapy and reading up on the regular reports of Daisy and his mum that he didn’t have time to suss it out, but now he realises that that has been exactly what’s been bothering him. He stands, scrabbles for it in his bedside drawer, and Harry looks on curiously until Eggsy yanks it out. Then his expression smooths out into a stony pokerface.

Eggsy looks at him, the pendant dangling from Eggsy’s outstretched hand between them.

“Harry, who’s Valentine?“

Harry, who never lets anything shake his untouchable, calm exterior _, flinches_. He stands smoothly, and the words spill out of Eggsy in a panic now, needing answers.

“It’s just, the medal, it’s a V, right? I thought it was a K at first, but it’s a V, and when you first sent it back that name popped up, and it feels fuckin’ important, it means something, and it’s connected to what I’m missing, I fuckin’ know it is– Harry, I need to know, _please_ –“

Harry’s back is to him now, hand on the doorknob. When he finally speaks, his  voice runs a shiver down Eggsy’s back.

“You thought that I was dead, when you remembered my name. Valentine is the cause of that misconception.“

And, for the first time since Eggsy’s awoken from his coma, Harry steps out the door and leaves him without another word.

* * *

Harry doesn’t come back for a couple of nights. Eggsy can’t stand it, and when he’s fed up enough, he demands an explanation of Merlin. That name, _Valentine_ , rouses a similarly disgusted reaction in him as it did in Harry, but he provides Eggsy with a brief, obviously censored explanation.

“He’s the reason you’re here. Killed one of our own, opened up a position to fill. You and Roxy both attended the extended job interview, she got the position. He shot Harry, and when immediate action needed to be taken against him, you filled in. Saved the world, in a manner of speaking.“

“I saved the world?“ Eggsy asks incredulously, “Guess I’m some sort of a hero then, innit?“

“Don’t let it go to your head, lad,“ Merlin grumbles, “most agents have, at some point. It’s part of your job.“

“So I s’pose I got trained to be amazing, then?” He says it lightheartedly, winks at Merlin. Apparently that’s what does the older man in though, because he proceeds to roll his eyes and head out of the room, mumbling something about dogs and tricks.

* * *

When Eggsy returns to his room after a long day of wearing himself out in the gym a week later, he still hasn’t seen hide nor hair of Harry. It’s distressing, of course– so he’s been occupying himself with other things, like working out. He’s been getting better at the rings and the bars, might get started on the pommel horse again soon if his doctors allow it– or even if they don’t. His body always feels more relaxed after a good gymnastics session; the physiotherapists think it’s because he dimly remembers training as a kid, has a positive association with it.

He doesn’t even notice at first, he’s so tired: just drops his bag in the dark room with a dull thump and takes his shirt off to shower in the en suite bathroom. He throws it in the corner, prepared to deal with it later, and his hands make a move to shove down his tracksuit bottoms when some clears their throat noisily.

A very male someone.

Eggsy flinches back and curses, then squints at the shadow sitting upright at the edge of his bed. He flicks on the light, looks over to be certain, and sure enough–

“Harry?”

A pair of slightly irritated brown eyes is squinting up at him in the sudden brightness of the room.

“Good evening, Eggsy.”

Eggsy crosses his arms in front of his chest, puffing up a little. He missed Harry, sure, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t slightly pissed off at his dramatic exit. “What’re you doing here?”

“I just wanted to drop by to see how you were doing. Merlin told me about your intensive physical training this week.”

“Did he now,” Eggsy raises an eyebrow, “he sure as shit hasn’t said anything about what you’ve been doing.”

“I’m afraid that’s because I took on a mission. It was quite important to both Merlin and myself for me to get back in the field.”

“Right. Guess you’ve got more important things to do, yeah? I’m sure you’ll appreciate me going to bed and leaving you to that, then.”

Eggsy moves towards the bed, juts his chin out a little when Harry stands and looks down at him from his full height. Harry’s studying him through his glasses, clever eyes moving over his skin so intently that Eggsy almost shivers. 

“I wanted to apologise for my abrupt exit the other day,” Harry states, blatantly ignoring Eggsy’s downright bratty behaviour.  “I should have explained the situation. It was quite rude of me not to."

It’s not like Eggsy doesn’t know what Harry’s doing, staring down at him with those sharp eyes, making him feel like a butterfly pinned down for display, but he knows he shouldn’t have stepped on Harry’s toes and he’s just really tired.

“Look, it’s fine. Merlin explained a little, and I swear I didn’t mean anything by it. The medal just seemed like the key, right? The thing that was going to explain everything. Guess you were just right about learning to live with some bits missing.”

Harry nods in understanding. Then he keeps standing at the edge of Eggsy’s bed, staring down at Eggsy.

“Harry? I really am tired.”

A beat where he seems to compose himself, then–

“Of course,” he replies hastily, seemingly snapping out of a trance. “I’ll stop by tomorrow. Good night, Eggsy.”

Eggsy slips underneath the covers as the light’s turned off. 

“Good night,” he murmurs, but Harry’s already slipped out and shut the door.

* * *

He’s at the shooting range with Roxy, trying out some new guns and being lectured by her on the most efficient ways to use a gun after you’re out of bullets. She glances up at him while demonstrating the move, then her gaze slides off to the left of him before snapping back.

“The most useful places to stab are obviously the carotid artery in the throat and the eye,” she’s saying, "but depending on the situation, the thigh might prove useful, too. Harry looks like he wants to take you home to show you his taxidermy collection, it’s sickening. What did you do to him?”

She says it so nonchalantly that Eggsy keeps nodding along, not registering it at first, then frowns and spins around to see Harry watching them through the glass partition in the wall. His mouth twitches up, pleased, and Eggsy grins and waves a little.

When he turns back to Roxy, both her eyebrows are judging him. It’s slightly terrifying.

“Well, what do I do with the empty magazine?” he prompts.

The eyebrows don’t move. Then she shakes her head and sighs like Eggsy’s absolutely hopeless, smoothly takes the gun apart and starts explaining anew.

* * *

In the end, it's ridiculously mundane. There's no nightmare, no dramatic realisation, he just— googles it, like the millennial tosser he is. 

It's not even an immediate thought, is the thing. Didn't even initially occur to him to look up what little he knows about his work, it just comes to him while he's bored in between workouts to rebuild his gymnastics skill set. Just out of curiosity, he decides to look up all their names with the tablet Merlin provided him with: Lancelot, Merlin, Excalibur. He ends up finding out about Arthurian legends, and digs up a list of all the Knights of the round table. His eyes skid over the names and their symbolic meanings, and he doesn't immediately hook onto a name, but there is one that he keeps flitting back to.

Galahad, the pure knight, deriving his power from his physical and mental virtue.

There's something about that: purity. Pure inviting darkness, like Harry. Pure eviscerating light, burning Eggsy to ashes. He isn't dim; knows by now that his subconscious is trying to leave him clues. It's obvious that all of these codenames refer to people, so who is Galahad supposed to be? Surely not the leader: if Merlin is their technological 'wizard', then the logical leader of the Table must be Arthur. Stumped, Eggsy's eyes fly to the pendant on his bedside table, that V in the middle...

Absurdly, it clicks. 

_When we first met, it was a different name._

_You thought I was dead._

_Do you feel as though someone's identity is eluding you again?_

Not a V. K after all. K for Kingsman, for _Galahad_.

"My own," he whispers. 

Then he hits the panic button.

* * *

He watches the footage for hours. There's a couple of videos of Harry, too, but otherwise it's all footage of Eggsy, _Galahad_ , spinning and bending and shooting in the most graceful dance of violence that Eggsy's ever seen. He watches recent missions, and early training footage too. On screen, Eggsy sees a young man not unlike himself get ruined and mangled into a horribly shattered mirror's image of Harry. The look, the fighting style, even the accent imitates Harry's eerily, and Galahad obviously had some major issues, besides. Merlin's cut the videos for convenience, but even so, it isn't hard to see Galahad's self-destructive streak. He's getting into every fight he can, taking obviously unnecessary risks; the very picture of self-destructive consumerism. Provoking and fucking and drinking, goading arms dealers and drug lords and always testing his limits.

In a video dated about a month before Eggsy woke up from his coma, Galahad looks into the bathroom mirror of the day's fancy hotel, cleaning up the bloody knuckles and teeth that he's collected during a recent brawl like trophies. Eggsy shivers at the empty recklessness burning in those blue eyes, the feral grin and hollow laugh that leave Galahad's mouth when he sees his ruined state in that mirror.

That particular video ends with Galahad in a shabby basement, a man with a wickedly curved knife stepping closer. Undoubtedly, the man is the cause of the injuries that Eggsy has been recuperating from: the angry scars that litter his torso and thighs. Having seen enough, Eggsy clicks out of the viewing window and scrolls through the folder, looking for a file he may have missed. He almost overlooks the small icon in the bottom corner of the window, seemingly the very last video in the folder. It’s titled, quite simply, "South Glade Mission Church" and a niggling sense of dread fills Eggsy when he clicks on it.

He recognises it almost immediately. Not the details, but the sense of motion is familiar, and as necks crack and blood spurts, he realises in a horrifying moment of clarity that _this_ is what he has been dreaming about, a massacre translated into colours and pain. He shudders as the slaughter unfolds in fornt of him and has to close his eyes throughout some of it. It all feels like déjà vu, watching and shuddering through it, except for that he knows with a sudden certainty that the last room he watched it in wasn't white, but _red…_

The video has gone silent. Eggsy opens his eyes in time for Harry to step out of the dim church into the blinding light outside. Pure and bright; for a moment he's Galahad to his very core, until a gun lifts and—

Pain, falling, red. Just like in his dream, except for that the pain was never his own. Harry's glasses are obscured with the blood that's spurted from his injury, and the entire screen is red. Eggsy hears his own voice from the screen; a long, desperate scream of denial.

The video pauses at the end like that: just a blur of red. Eggsy doesn't move, still stuck on processing all of it. The agency, the work, the knowledge that he has killed people. When he finally looks up,  it seems to be a little further into the afternoon, and even though he’s unsure of his welcome, he knows he has to go see Harry.

* * *

 Harry is solemn when he opens the door.

“Eggsy,” he says, unsurprised. “Merlin gave you my address, I see. Come in.”

Eggsy nods his thanks and steps into the house. Looking around feels like déjà vu, which is, technically speaking, entirely accurate. Harry leads the way up into his office, not looking back to see if Eggsy’s following. They enter the scarlet study in silence, Harry turning to lean against the desk while Eggsy slides into the armchair opposite after Harry nods for him to take it.

“I’ve heard that Merlin's finally given you access to all the recent Galahad files,” Harry starts.

Eggsy nods.

"I'm very sorry you had to see that. That surely wasn't the best way to be reminded of your occupation."

"I dreamt it," Eggsy replies tonelessly. "Been dreaming it for months, now. Not any details, but the red and the light and the pain. Been dreaming it from your end."

Harry looks at him gravely.

"You came back and you were expecting him, weren't you? Probably thought he'd be here with open fuckin’ arms, and you got me instead. I didn't even remember you. How fucked up is that? You get shot and I've got memory loss."

"Eggsy—"

"I ain't him," he interjects. "I'm not that bloke who you saved from a broken home or whatever, and I'm not the guy that remade himself in your image. I don't hero-worship you or anything like that, alright? And look, I get that you think it's that, and maybe it was, a little. I don't know, 'cos I don't remember exactly how he— how I felt 'bout you. But that’s not what it is now." He takes a deep breath before continuing. "I need you to get that, 'cos I sleep better every single time you're around, and it ain't 'cos you're a father figure."

Harry inhales sharply.

A tense silence settles around them while Eggsy struggles to think of something else to say, but Harry beats him to it.

"To be quite frank, I'm not entirely sure you ever saw me as a father figure."

Eggsy glances up at Harry. He’s not looking at Eggsy, which is an oddity: Eggsy didn’t think Harry was self-conscious enough to be shy about anything.

“You’ve seen most of the recruitment process by now. I don’t know how much you remember, but after the train track test, we got twenty-four hours with each other, as mentor and recruit.”

“I remember some of it, yeah,” Eggsy replies slowly, “I got a suit, I think, but I mostly remember sitting in your office, like this. It was nighttime, and you were–,” he cuts off, suddenly, remembering that flash of memory about Harry’s hand on his face. He’d been trying not to think about it, honestly, had written it off as some sort of dream. Harry is an attractive man, and had never given any indication that his feelings for Eggsy went beyond fondness, so he’d assumed that the incident hadn’t actually happened. 

Eggsy’s starting to realise he might not be as perceptive as he thought. 

“Something about teaching me to make a martini?” he asks carefully, peering up at Harry, who nods.

“You were a quick and eager study, as always. And perhaps it took a little liquid courage for you, so to speak, but eventually you had had enough of etiquette and martinis.”

“I made a move?”

“Well, you situated yourself between myself and the martini I was preparing on the counter. It wasn’t a very large space, so I suppose if you’d call pressing yourself between a hard surface and myself a ‘move’, then yes, you did.”

“I tried to _grind up_ on you?”

“Quite so.”

Eggsy’s pretty sure his eyebrows have risen into his hairline by now. Obviously, the desire to have Harry press him against a hard surface isn’t a new one.

“Nothing happened though, did it?” he asks, recalling the glimpse of the scene that made him remember Harry’s name.

“While ethics isn’t something I often stop to think about, I felt that we weren’t on equal terms; that there was a discord, as it were, which would have made the experience… unsatisfactory.”

Eggsy absorbs the words like a sponge. Partially from a shattered memory and partially from Harry's words, he can see the scene unfolding before him.

_Harry’s hand around the stem of a martini glass, placing it on the counter with a quiet clink. Those broad hands wielding the bottles of liquor with the same confidence they would a gun. Eggsy placing his own, smoother hands on Harry’s rough ones, luring the ingredients out of them and placing them on the counter gently. Slipping between Harry and the hard counter, looking up and drowning in those dark brown eyes._

Eggsy rises, now, lost entirely in the memory of _Harry_ , without the mark of all their regrets framing the temple around his left eye. He’s sliding toward the elder man, who’s now caught between him and the table. 

_Eggsy’s stuck between Harry and the marble counter,_   _his hands slipping on the counter behind him._  

Harry’s gripping the edge of the table in a white-knuckled grip. They’re pressed together from chest to knees in the afternoon light–

_The dim lamps of Harry’s kitchen_. 

Harry’s eyes are shuttered, and his breath is hot against Eggsy’s lips.

_Harry lifts his hand to cup Eggsy’s cheek, and it almost seems like he can’t help himself when Eggsy leans into it. Eggy’s name leaves his mouth in a hushed breath, and it sounds almost like awe, like a confession._

_“Harry,” He murmurs in return, and it feels like relief._

Eggsy knows now how that story ends. With his name in the room, Harry realises that it’s his protégé pressed up against his kitchen counter, and they both go to separate beds, full of longing and a feeling of being incomplete.

But they’ve rewritten the ending now, and there’s no going back to when their lives were an uncompleted crossword puzzle that was supposed to spell out ‘almost’. Eggsy’s not the same as he once was; not quite an entirely different person, but not quite the same either, and neither is Harry. They've both changed enough that their jagged edges line up and catch on each other instead of being mismatched. 

Eggsy is a frankensteinian patchwork of memories and feelings that match up just enough with his old self that he feels the echoes of his wants pulse through him, rediscovered in the various patches of his identity. Eggsy, Gary, Galahad: names of all the aspects of himself that he needed to discover before he could be sure that he is more than their sum and yet part of their whole. He is allowed to want what Galahad and Gary wanted, even if he isn’t quite either of them.

"I'm not him, love," Eggsy breathes against Harry's mouth, needing him to understand, needing to hear an affirmation of the irrevocable shift that’s happened in both of them. "I might not ever be him again.”

Harry understands. Of course he does.

"I find that I'm quite satisfied with you, just as you are," Harry murmurs back, and it’s exactly what Eggsy needs to hear, an acceptance and admittance in one. 

He moves in slowly, threading one hand into Harry thick locks and using the other to firmly pull Harry's hip towards him. Harry melts into the guiding touch, lets himself be pulled down to meet Eggsy's expectant mouth. 

Harry doesn't kiss the way Eggsy expects, but the second their lips meet, it seems glaringly obvious that Eggsy has made a grave oversight. He thought that Harry might be animalistic, unleashing all that tightly held control. Instead, he moves slowly and sinuously, luring Eggsy into a leisurely, wet kiss. He teases with his tongue, goades Eggsy into impatiently opening his mouth. When Eggsy twists his fingers in that thick hair, Harry makes gorgeous, filthy little noises, and _oh_ , Eggsy’s definitely getting wound up far too quickly. Their lips are making obscenely wet noises every time they slide against each other, and Eggsy can feel himself firming up in his pants in response.

He makes himself slow down, presses Harry back and steadies them against the table.

“Harry,“ he sighs against his lips, that lovely name slipping out like a release, “the bedroom would be fab round about now.“

“Certainly,“ Harry murmurs distractedly, and Eggsy feels absurdly smug about the heavy tone of arousal in his voice. Harry, of course, quickly shatters that morsel of pride by proceeding to rile him up with some more filthy, stolen kisses, and Eggsy’s almost about to bugger it all to hell and do Harry right on the table when the wanker pulls away and nips on the hinge of his jaw. Eggsy jerks helplessly, grinds himself down on Harry’s thigh and swears. 

“You’re not playing entirely fair,” Eggsy grumbles, scrabbling at Harry’s jacket.

“Darling, we’re spies,” Harry shoots back, “playing fair is hardly appropriate.”

Just like that, Eggsy laughs, loud and pure, can’t stop grinning even as he backs away. He holds Harry’s gaze while slowly stripping off his shirt and then sliding a hand over his abs and into his underwear to give himself a smooth stroke.

"Guess we're all on the same page then,” he says cockily, and makes a run for the bedroom.

Harry’s swearing endearments follow him all the way there.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm thecookieoftroy over on tumblr if you wanna hit me up!


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